Down The Hatch by John Winton Page B

Jimmy and Harry pinned the Undertaker in a corner of the control room and told him jokes. Moira played “When the Saints Come Marching In” on a line of glasses. The Mayor was heard to remark that submarines were a fine invention.
    “In fact I’ll go further, Commander,” he told The Bodger. “We’ll be damned sorry to see you go tomorrow.”
     
    But when the morning came, it did not appear that Seahorse would go after all. A dense mist covered the harbour. Visibility was not more than a hundred yards. The mournful lowing of ships’ sirens sounded through the fog. The Bodger would not normally have considered going to sea but there was another consideration.
    “When have we got to be in position for ‘Lucky Alphonse’, Pilot?”
    “We’re supposed to be dived in our area by noon tomorrow, sir.”
    “How far have we got to go?”
    “Almost four hundred miles, sir.”
    “Well, we’ll wait a little longer. When the sun gets up properly it may melt this lot away. I’ll have another look at nine o’clock.”
    At nine o’clock it seemed that the mist was thinning. The sun could be seen as a bright spot in the grey fog. The Bodger could see almost as far as the other side of the river. He decided to go to sea.
    With radar operating, siren blasting and extra look-outs posted, Seahorse crept down harbour. Opposite the main road, where the channel narrowed, the fog clamped down more thickly than ever. The Bodger was forced to stop. He could not see Seahorse ’s casing from the bridge.
    “What’s the sounding now?”
    “Four fathoms, sir. . . . Three and a half fathoms. . . .”
    “We must be getting damned close to that main road.”
    “I think I can hear a car now, sir,” said Wilfred.
    The Bodger listened intently. He was sure he could hear a car, too. His doubts were resolved a few moments later by the squealing of brakes, a tearing crash of metal and a loud splash.
    The mist momentarily thinned and the men on Seahorse ’s bridge looked down upon a small green van which was submerged in water up to the windscreen. The driver was climbing out when he noticed Seahorse materializing out of the fog. He shook his fist and bellowed at The Bodger.
    “My dear chap,” said The Bodger mildly. “Hadn’t you better start sounding your horn?”
     

5
     
    Exercise “Lucky Alphonse” was the biggest and most important fleet exercise of the year, being planned to last three weeks during which time one hundred and eighty ships of fourteen nations would steam over an area stretching from the Denmark Straits to the Canary Islands and four hundred and fifty aircraft would take off from airfields scattered between Dakar and Reykjavik. The villains, or attacking side, were Pink. The heroes, or defending side, were Blue.
    “Just as I thought,” said The Bodger when he saw the Exercise Orders. “Nuclear Cowboys and Indians.”
    The Exercise Orders, when first issued, were thought to be a little too bulky, particularly for ships which had small operations rooms, but by brilliant cutting and inspired paraphrasing (at the risk of losing some of the nuances of the language) the Combined Staffs had succeeded in reducing the final edition to one more manageable volume equivalent in size, without Amendments, to the first two volumes of the London Telephone Directory. Amendments followed the Orders themselves at weekly intervals although many ships received the Amendments some weeks before the Orders. One destroyer from Rosyth received neither Orders nor Amendments but still acquitted herself with distinction in the Exercise; her Captain, a firm churchman, taking his part from the Second Book of Kings and Hymns Ancient & Modern.
    When The Bodger received his copy he read the first page, where he noted the date the Exercise started, the last page, where he noted the date the Exercise finished, thumbed hopefully through the rest (once, as a young midshipman, The Bodger had come across a brand new ten shilling note in a copy of